


Seven Inches From the Midday Sun

by Sinful Words (MontanaHarper)



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-11
Updated: 2007-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Sinful%20Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Jensen grins, lets his head hang down so he can roll the cool wet bottle across the nape of his neck. "Blow me," he says, and as always it's as much an offer as a retort. "I don't see you heading down to Assfuck, Oklahoma."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Inches From the Midday Sun

Chris's house is surprisingly quiet for a Saturday afternoon in August. Jensen snags a beer from the cooler by the patio door and sits himself down on the steps behind Chris, where he's got a good view of the back of Chris's neck. The old acoustic guitar sounds as lazy as Jensen feels, the L.A. heat blistering after Vancouver's cool, forgiving summer. He tugs his tee-shirt off over his head and tosses it at the nearest deck chair.

"When'd you turn into such a pussy, Ackles?" Chris asks without even turning around. "It's hotter'n this before breakfast in Dallas."

Jensen grins, lets his head hang down so he can roll the cool wet bottle across the nape of his neck. "Blow me," he says, and as always it's as much an offer as a retort. "I don't see you heading down to Assfuck, Oklahoma."

Chris stops playing, and for a second Jensen thinks he went too far; he knows Chris can be touchy about home. He's just opening his mouth to apologize when Chris says, "Assfuck, huh? That what you think about when you think of me?" and that stops Jensen cold. He can sense that there's a right answer here, but he's not sure what it is; if he could see Chris's face, Chris's _eyes_....

The safe thing would be to crack a fag joke, defuse the tension—and he almost does, but he can't quite push the words out. Instead, he twists off the bottle cap and takes a long, easy swallow of beer.

"Sometimes," he finally allows, pleased that his voice is steady.

Chris sets the guitar aside and leans back on his elbows; he's still facing away, and that makes the conversation both easier and harder on Jensen. "When you think about it," Chris drawls slowly, like they're talking about the weather or the Cowboys or chord progressions, "who's doin' the fucking?"

Jensen wonders if it's too late to make that joke, to play it off as an attempt to fuck with Chris's head, but even as he thinks it, he knows he can't; he's pretty sure Chris wouldn't totally believe him, and so it'd always be hanging there between them. Better to get into a dust-up over the truth and walk away knowing where he stands. The only question is whether to tell the whole truth, or just part of it.

He lets his gut decide, his respect for Chris's friendship overriding his own nervous fear. "Depends."

"On?"

"The day, my mood." He takes another long swallow of beer, goes for broke. "If you're wearing the jeans with the holes in the ass."

Chris's head tips back and their eyes meet for just an instant before Chris bursts out laughing. "You've got a hell of a pair, Jenny. A hell of a pair," he says, and the nickname grates more than usual, the knots in Jensen's stomach tightening until he thinks he might have to lean over and puke on Chris's scraggly lawn. He sits still, though, nursing his beer and waiting for Chris's laughter to wind down, waiting to see what happens.

What happens is that Chris stays where he's at, his body stretched up the steps between Jensen's legs and his eyes closed. "A hell of a pair," he repeats softly, then: "Tell me."

It's not at all what Jensen was expecting and he thinks about protesting, saying that Chris is asking too much, but considering he's just admitted to using his best friend for fantasy fodder, the moral high ground can't even be seen from where he's standing. Problem is, he doesn't even know where to start, how honest to be....

He must've been silent too long, because Chris is squinting up at him. "Tell me what them jeans make you think about."

And that's easy enough. Maybe too easy, in fact, because Jensen's thought about that worn pair of 501s way the hell too much.

"The second button's always coming undone and you never notice it. Makes me want to pull the rest of 'em open until I can see those lame-ass plaid boxers you love so much—"

"Hey!" Chris interrupts. "Watch your mouth; my mama gave me them."

Chris is smiling a little, though, and his tone is teasing, so Jensen keeps going. "Well then it's a good thing I want to get you out of 'em," he says, pitching his voice low, his words for Chris's ears only. "I think about dropping to my knees in front of you, my hands on your thighs or maybe on your ass, keeping you still while I suck your dick." He watches Chris's eyes flick to his mouth and he can't help the nervous dart of tongue over lips.

"And then?" Chris's voice is cigarettes-and-whiskey rough, and Jensen can see Chris's hand resting low on his belly, fingers splayed flat and tense.

Jensen breathes, feeling kind of like he's drunk and kind of like he's in the middle of a stunt, adrenaline buzzing through him until his senses are oversharp and everything is just a little unreal. "And then once you come, when you're all relaxed and half asleep, I spread you out on the bed like Sunday supper," he says, and he's still waiting for it all to go to hell, because he's not making this shit up on the spot, he's confessing his fucked-up, dirty fantasy to the object of it, and that thought gives him the shakes. He tosses back the last of his beer, fighting to keep his hand steady.

"I spread your ass, fucking you with my tongue and my fingers, listening to you moan and swear at me to hurry the fuck up. But I take my time, get you good and slick—first with spit and then with lube—because I want it to be easy, want you stretched and open for my dick. Want to make it good for you." He can feel a heat on his face that's not the fault of the relentless sun hanging in the noonday sky; he's never said anything like this out loud before, not ever, and he's embarrassed but hard enough to pound nails, too.

Chris's hand slides down, palm pressing against the front of the jeans that started this whole thing, and he says, "Fuck." A pause and a ragged breath that Jensen imagines he can feel shuddering into his own deprived lungs, and then Chris looks up at him, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed. "Yeah?"

Jensen's not quite sure which question Chris is asking, but he knows the answer to all of them. "Yeah."


End file.
